Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

Friends ask me what I do when my husband is out hunting antelope, deer or a trophy elk. I query book agents, research writing contests, mentor new authors, and try to think of something fresh to post to this blog.

Not too long ago AARP The Magazine invited readers to submit a personal essay about what it feels like to be middle-aged. I sat down at my laptop and wrote this without hesitation:

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I've been married and divorced, chunky and thin, blonde and brunette. I've been a stay-at-home mom, a struggling single mother, a career woman, an absent wife. I've been a dutiful daughter, a loving Grandma, a friend that listens. I love my hazel eyes, but not the fine wrinkles. I love my smile, but hate the fact that I don't have lips like Angeline Jolie.

I like my hair cut short, I love the bold bleach streaks, but continue to be concerned that it's thinning at the top. I pray, I laugh, I flip-out, I attempt to maximize the positive. I give thanks to God, the universe, and my parents who could have kicked me to the door prior to me leaving at age nineteen.

I tell the truth if someone asks my age (sixty-five) and my current weight (155 lbs) but want to fib about my height. There was a time I stood 5'8" and I'm now one inch shorter. My primary care physician calls it gravity. 

Baby boomers can identify with me. We have desires, regrets and goals even at our advanced ages. Growing older is not a disease--but an opportunity to reflect, continue to learn and share our lessons. 

I tend to think of my experiences as leaves on a truly magnificent oak tree. Some leaves wither away and drop to the ground, while others sprout green and reach for the sun.  

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